


Hypothesis Rejected (Or: This is all Lydia's Fault.)

by thelostrocketeer



Series: The Sporadic Inebriation Theories [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, And Lydia always gets her way, CAMPING TRIP OMG, Frottage, In which Erica makes a grave mistake., In which Jackson knows he's a lizard, Lol no this has nothing to do with Erica at all, M/M, Not drunk I swear., So does Lydia, Stiles' POV, college age, this is basically crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostrocketeer/pseuds/thelostrocketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ah well. Blame it on the booze.</p><p>That sloppy camping trip fic where everyone gets drunk, and shenanigans occur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypothesis Rejected (Or: This is all Lydia's Fault.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/gifts).



> Be warned- this is approaching crack territory.

It’s all Lydia’s fault.

“Let’s all go camping!” she’d said in her bubbliest voice; and what Lydia wants, Lydia gets, see?

But still.

A camping trip? With a werewolf pack, a kanima and a hunter? Seriously?

This is the worst idea ever, you hear yourself think- because it is, really. So maybe this is your first reunion since high school, and maybe yeah, it _has_ been a year since you were all together last.

 

But then of course since then you’ve come to terms with the face that you _actually like boys_ and your group of friends have only known one mutual gay friend (who isn’t you.) and you haven’t thought of a way to come out to them with minimal fuss.

And of course this time around you’re legal and Derek Hale is still hot as hell. And also still the Alpha. And also probably not gay.

You’ve got to see how this is a bad idea, right?

To top it off you’ve forgotten your sleeping bag. And of course it’s just your luck that you get drawn to sleep with Derek. ‘Cause it’s not like being stuck with him in the Jeep for the whole thrice-damned four-hour trip to the beach trying to make it look like you’re not half-hard is bad enough.

‘Cause you just can’t catch a break, see?

 

*

 

To be fair, it’s been fun so far. Despite your initial fears, you’re enjoying yourself.

Swimming, barbequing, singing stupid songs, burying Boyd in the sand like a bunch of schoolchildren when he falls asleep in the mid-day heat.

You even have a campfire with marshmallows and everything come evening. And booze. Because that’s what adults do. Right?

As the sun turns the sky orange, a bottle of tequila is passed around. Then a bottle of Jack. Then some cheap wine. The Betas hog the bottles, because Erica _swears_ she can’t get drunk anymore, since she’s changed.

“No way,” you hear Jackson slur. “That’s not fair, I mean. I still get drunk… And I’m a fucking kanima!”

“Way. And also, sucks to be you,” she says, tipping the bottle back then smacking her lips together, almost like… like a wolf.

 

Is it true, though? You wonder.

You peek at Derek, who’s nursing his fifth or sixth beer. Well. Maybe it is true, you think. Derek catches you peeking and he _smirks_. And of course in that moment you’re sixteen again and you blush like a beauty queen. But then again who wouldn’t blush at that practically-obscene mouth of his?

You look away and pray that no one else noticed that. Then you catch Scott’s eye and he’s looking at you with his classic _you smell funny_ face, because the words “Scott” and “subtlety” can never be used in the same sentence before.

 

Ah well. Blame it on the booze.

 

*

 

In fact, it’s not that bad a day… till it’s time to sleep (also known as that moment when all the couples have disappeared into their tents and suddenly sitting around a slowly dying campfire with two werewolves while slightly drunk seems a bit of a bad idea.)

You yawn and get up. And sway a bit, but that’s expected.

“Ladies,” you drawl. “I bid you goodnight.”

Boyd smiles at you from his spread-eagle position on the sand and closes his eyes.

“Night, Stiles,” he says in his calm way.

 

You look at Derek and imitate a goldfish because your throat has gone dry again and damn, this is awk-

“I’ll be right along, Stiles.”

Well. There’s that.

 

You make your way in the dark and crawl into the tent and strip off your hoodie, then your sandy jeans.

 

Remember how you forgot your sleeping bag? Well, that’s how you find yourself trying to squeeze onto a tiny corner of Derek’s, trying hard to be small and invisible-

But then suddenly Derek’s there, shrugging off his leather jacket and shucking off his jeans (and getting loose sand everywhere) before crawling over to lie down, his bulk taking up most of the sleeping bag anyway.

 

And then he’s spooning you.

 

One hand lifting you up easily to slip under you and the other sliding across your waist to join it and rest slightly above your hips, broad chest pressed to your back, nose nuzzled into the back of your neck and all that jazz.

It’s not like you’ve never shared a bed with someone before. And it’s not like you mind having an extremely good looking man clinging on to your back. It’s just that the sand you both collectively tracked in is rough and Derek is built like a monster truck (ha, really bad pun alert.) So you’re halfway off the tiny corner of the sleeping bag you once thought was yours and the sand is scratching your arms.

 

And okay maybe it’s also because _Derek Freaking Hale_ is hugging you from behind.

And he may or may not have a boner.

 

Inside your head, a war is raging. _Oh my God do I push him off what do I do, no this is good this is very good, no bad Stiles mustn’t take advantage of the big bad wolf oh, but this is so good,_ and your mouth can’t keep up with your brain because suddenly you hear yourself say-

 

“Dude.”

 

_Whoops._

 

“What is it _now_ , Stiles?” he says, voice rumbling into your back.

“Dude you’re hogging the sleeping bag. And spooning me. Not that that’s unwelcome, it’s just you’re spooning me off the side of the sleeping and-“

“Shut up, _Stiles_.”

And of course you squeak. Like a freaking mouse.

'Cause anyone would, right? When they’re slightly wasted and they hear an Alpha werewolf growling their name like that, not to mention he’s pressed up against your back and he’s warm like the sun and he smells really good, not like a dog at all, more like oranges and maybe he tastes like-

 

Oh holy God.

 

“Stiles. You smell like sex.”

“As much as it pains me to admit this, I’m a virgin, Derek. Can you smell that, too?”

Good God, what are you doing sassing a werewolf who’s plastered to your back like a blanket on a really warm night? Oh God he’s _sniffing_ you now. What the hell was in all the booze around the fire just now?

Oh. Right. Alcohol. Heh.

 

So werewolves _can_ get drunk.

 

You turn to face him and _ah, fuck_ that was a bad idea cause if you couldn’t feel his erection just now you can definitely feel it now.

 

“Stiles. Stiles Stiles Stiles Stiles. Stiles,” he’s saying now, his nose all up in your face and down the side of your neck and oh, God. Why are you so turned on right now? Now he’s whispering. And those whispers are warm against your face.

“You smell so good. Why do you smell so good?”

“De- Derek,” you croak.

“Shush- shush- shush,” he sort-of croons in your ear and then there’s a tongue in it, warm and wet and holy Buddha that went straight down to your cock and-

Mmm. He does tastelike oranges. Really sweet, warm oranges. His mouth is soft against yours, and it’s soft as it makes its way all over your face, covering it with tiny pecks followed by something warm and wet.

 

And oh God he’s _licking_ you. You have an abstract thought of dogs licking things but then he’s licking your neck and gently rolling you over with him and he’s on you now, pressing you down with his bulk.

Ah, great. Now you have sand sticking to your neck.

 

You don’t know why but you’ve never been able to control your mouth anyway, so suddenly your mouth is moving and you hear your voice half-whisper, “You’re so warm.” Random, but true.

But of course he can hear it, super-hearing and all. He noses at the hollow of your sternum, making drunken little noises like a happy puppy.

His hands are exploring now, under your shirt, pressing your ribs, your lower back, playing with your nipples.

 

“May I?” he whispers, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. And that kinda stuns you for a second- because an Alpha? Asking you for permission? And of course you nod, because who could say no to that _voice_?

You help him get your shirt off and then his mouth is kissing a trail down your neck, down down down, tongue worrying the skin on your lower belly, dipping into your belly button and oh God that should be illegal, the way he looks like a porn star when you look at him from this angle.

You realise you’ve been moaning (loudly) and stuff a fist into your mouth, _whoops didn’t mean for you to hear that_ , you think telepathically to the other campers.

You prop yourself up on one elbow and look down at this gloriously drunken creature who’s tasting your hipbones with a look of contentment on his face.

 

Ah, screw it.

 

You tap his shoulder and pull yourself towards him, so you’re both half-sitting.

You kiss him again, full, sweet, oh-so-gay and you wonder whether Danny would jerk-off to this. No, bad, don’t think about Danny think about Derek, Derek, yes good, Derek.

You let your hands wander. ‘Cause who’d be able to help themselves, what with those muscles and the warmth and all that smooth skin?

You taste the pulsing artery on his neck and bite, blunt, inadequate human teeth barely grazing the sun-kissed skin there. You grip his shoulders and run your hand down his side.

 

“May I?” you hear yourself say and of course he does, Stiles you dumbass. Heck, he’s gotten his shirt off faster than you can blink and he presses himself on you again, bare skin slick with sweat, the smell of oranges coming off in waves off his back.

His hands reach the waistband of your boxers and you realise: you’re wet, beyond wet, the front of your boxers are soaked with pre-come. But hey. His are, too, so it’s fair, you guess. He palms you and you jerk, sudden and rough into his warm hand. He’s beyond politeness now, and he kneels, bringing you with him, as he yanks your boxers down.

And then he’s rubbing, up and down, fast and warm and rough _oh my God_. With his free hand he pulls down his own boxers, and holy shit you may not have had sex before but it’s going to happen now and _yes_. He wraps his hand around you both and you’re clinging on to him like your life depends on it, hips bucking; needing more contact, more of this wonderful, glorious friction.

 

He’s still sniffing you, only now he’s sniffing and biting and yep that’s going to be a mean hickey in the morning, damnit Derek couldn’t you have done it about half an inch lower than that?

 

It’s messy, wet, and sticky, and you want to yell out his name but you just know it would mean waking up your friends and how _incredibly awkward_ would that be?

 

You don’t last long, and soon you’re coming, and the back of your eyes seem to be putting on a brilliant fireworks display. You feel him jerk, once, twice, three times more and you feel him come as well, and your stomach is covered in the both of you. You cling on to him for dear life as you try to regain your breath.

You close your eyes and lean into him. His (you hope) clean hand is in your hair (stroking it! Derek Hale is petting you!) and his mouth is on your forehead, whispering praise and thanks and your name; warm breath sweet and cool where it evaporates. It’s almost surreal but it’s not because he’s still so warm and your knees are stinging from the coarse grains of sand on the tent floor.

Then suddenly you giggle. ‘Cause oh my holy Allah you just had sex with Derek Hale. And he’s giggling with you and he pushes you down lightly , landing on top of you, straddling you again but then you realise you can see stars. And the se faces of your friends, all wearing identical looks of amusement and bewilderment.

 

Apparently you’ve accidentally been pushed out of the tent, ‘cause the zipper has given away. So you’re naked on your back, stomach covered in cum, half out of your tent, with an equally naked and cum covered Derek Hale straddling your hips.

 

Whoops.

 

This is _all_ Lydia’s fault.

**Author's Note:**

> Drink responsibly, kids. 
> 
> Also: Thank you, Mikael. You know you love me.


End file.
